The African Shore

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It was still dark when Hamsa got up, and the wind out of the east was whistling over the cliff face, rattling the branches and leaves like a thousand maracas. He could hear the waves crashing violently on the rocks at the foot of the cliff. He finished his ablutions, then knelt to pray on the skin of a sheep slaughtered at the last Aid el Kebir. He brewed a glass of tea on his small brazier, broke open a dark round loaf of bread, and dunked a piece of it in a dish of olive oil. “In God’s name,” he said, and began to eat.

It was just getting light when he set out toward the slopes of Shlokía, where he had last seen the stray lamb just before returning to the sheep cote the day before. He followed the road along the cliff, the frogs still croaking around him, and passed below a big abandoned house that had once belonged to the Perdicaris family. Instead of following the path through the pine woods, he chose a trail through the thickets where he had found other strays in the past. Raising his arms from time to time against the thorns, he moved inward through a dim tunnel of vegetation. It was dangerous here, he knew — he could easily run into a wild boar — but he wasn’t afraid. He knew no djinn would come here: the djinn hated thorns (which was why Muslims let thorns grow on their family graves). The thicket was damp with dew, and inside it stank of resin, rosemary, and porcupine droppings.

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